


The Other Road

by Writernon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fantasizing, Fantasy!Dark!Lestrade, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Prostitution, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Violence, One-Sided Attraction, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Series, Prison Sex Fantasy, Rape Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-03 23:17:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writernon/pseuds/Writernon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: "Sherlock masturbates to a graphically imagined rape fantasy involving someone he knows. Up to author whether he casts himself as victim or perpetrator."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Other Road

**Author's Note:**

> I first posted this [here](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/12432.html?thread=62848400#t62848400) on the SherlockBBC_Fic Meme Sep. 25, 2011. Edited from initial posting.

It's an old fantasy, but reliable.

He's 18, strung out on a long list of drugs and chemicals, dropped out of Cambridge. Lestrade finds him, takes him in. This is fact. 

In his fantasies since the first night in that holding cell, Lestrade comes back late at night. Stands in the shadows, watching him sleep for several long minutes before taking the key and unlocking the door.

Over a decade later, Sherlock takes himself in hand.

Had it actually happened he wouldn't have protested, not one bit, but since this is fantasy he does. Uses his smart mouth to mock the Detective Sergeant and his prescence in the cell. Lestrade backhands him; Sherlock tastes blood. The light is out on the security camera and he's the only prisoner, unlike the memory, where a drunk from Stepney snored for three solid hours and the steady light of the security camera never winked once.

After the backhand, Lestrade grabs his arm, wrist, both wrists, caught together in a single hand, bones grinding. Sherlock opens his mouth to shout and is backhanded again.

Lestrade growls something about putting his smart mouth to good use (he's rubbish at the spoken parts of this fantasy), and presses him to his knees, pulling out his erect penis and rubbing the oozing head under Sherlock's nose. The strong male scent of Lestrade fills his fantasized memory, drawn from actual memories of discussing cases with Lestrade in the Met gym locker room, another potent field of fantasy.

Sherlock twists away from the intrusion, resists. Still gripping Sherlock's wrists tightly (in the now, Sherlock shoves his free hand up through the slats of his headboard, bars pressing against the skin of his inner wrist) Lestrade smacks Sherlock hard across the face again. His mouth falls slack and Lestrade takes the opportunity to shove his cock in without preamble.

Sherlock's hand on himself matches the imagined punishing rhythm of Lestrade's cock, sliding roughly past his lips and down his throat. He removes his hand from the headboard and stuffs three fingers in his mouth, whimpers around them.

"There, there," Lestrade says in his memory, twisted by fantasy, "We'll get you seen to."

In the most elaborate version of this fantasy, one he's only played through his mind once, Lestrade takes him from the holding cell and keeps him bound up in a tidy closet in his flat, uses him daily, any way, every way. 

It's far from the truth; Lestrade was unfailingly avuncular in the early days of their acquaintance, much as Sherlock would have liked to show the then Detective Sergeant all the ways of pleasuring a man he'd learned while earning funds for the drugs. He'd practised them often enough on men whose names he'd never even known. What might it be like to use them with someone...

Not helpful, back to the fantasy. Sherlock shoves his fingers deeply in his mouth, lips stretched uncomfortably, suppressing his own gag reflex as he imagines Lestrade's cock pounding the back of his throat, eyes starting to prickle with reflexive tears.

In the fantasy, he has Lestrade say the most appalling nonsense, but it varies. Sometimes it will be endearments; how beautiful Sherlock looks with a cock in his mouth, how good he is at taking it. Sometimes it will be angry, abusive, that this is all Sherlock is really good for. Those fantasies were more common early on, less so now, except when he makes an error on a case. Then sometimes he'll be so rough with himself in the fantasy that he'll bruise, scratch, break his own skin, bleed, and then come like he's dying.

This time his imaginary Lestrade has nothing but profane grunts and endearments. Sherlock works his fingers in his mouth faster, matching speed to the stroking of his cock. As he gets close, he imagines Lestrade's grip crushing the bones of his too-thin teenage wrists together and pressing them to the back of Sherlock's head. Lestrade's strokes lose rhythm and he curls forward over Sherlock, fucking his face with short hard thrusts, gasping and cursing. 

In his fantasy and in his bedroom, Sherlock's eyes water and spill over as he tries to breathe around the intrusion in his mouth. The heat pooling in his groin tightens and releases; he spills over his own hand the same time as Lestrade spills down his throat in his fantasy. He imagined its taste as cleaner and less bitter than his similar prior experiences.

As he lays in his bed, hands dropping away from his mouth and cock, his fantasy continues. Lestrade picks his shivering younger self up, lays him on the thin pallet in the holding cell, wipes the tears, saliva and semen off his face.

"Our little secret, eh? Tell anyone and I'll make you wish you hadn't."

That is also a potent source of fantasy for Sherlock.

Sherlock wipes his hand on the blanket on the bed, then runs his fingers through his own hair. In his mind, Lestrade does the same, then kisses the top of his head and leaves the cell, locking it behind him.

Sherlock is not sure whether that part is memory or fantasy.

He knows which one he wishes it was.


End file.
